If the Shoe Fits
by Virgo Writer
Summary: Fiyero's found the girl of his dreams, only he has nothing to go by but a first name and her ungainly choice of footwear. She's beautiful and impassioned and just being around her makes him feel like he's finally awake. Only she's not quite all she appears to be. Fiyeraba. AU.
1. Introducing Prince Charming

**If the Shoe Fits**

Disclaimer: I do not own Wicked.

As the title will hopefully imply, this story is a Wicked take on the much loved fairytale, Cinderella. This is story is musicalverse, but I've borrowed a fair bit from the the book in order to fill out the political landscape of Oz. And Avaric, because Fiyero is always in need of a partner in crime.

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Summary: Fiyero's found the girl of his dreams, only he has nothing to go by but a first name and her ungainly choice of footwear. She's beautiful and impassioned and just being around her makes him feel like he's finally awake. Only she's not quite all she appears to be. Fiyeraba. AU.

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If the Shoe Fits - Introducing Prince Charming

Fiyero was bored, which wasn't particularly surprising given his philosophy. Dancing through life may be painless (for the brainless), but it tended to make things particularly dull unless there was some sort of party or mischief afoot.

Where were the challenge and the excitement when everything was so easy? Where was the spice in life when everything was going smoothly? He had simply accepted mediocrity in order to save himself the effort of wanting more.

So there he was, bored and mediocre (aside form his scandalacious reputation and astonishingly good looks) just . . . waiting for something to come his way and occupy him for the next stretch. His philosophy did not promote making his own entertainment beyond setting up the occasional dance and generally corrupting the students of whatever university he was working on getting expelled from. The whole thing became routine fast, but he was too deeply set in his easy lifestyle to change it.

"Avaric, tell me a joke," he demanded of his best friend, closest companion, valet, and sometimes-servant. The two friends sat lazed in Fiyero's current apartment, doing nothing but staring blankly at the dull ceilings and walls.

"There once was a man from Nantucket," Avaric began drolly, twirling a dandy-like curl in his hair around his finger as he spoke, "whose-"

"No, I've heard that one," Fiyero, Prince of the Arjikis, complained, cutting his friend off mid-sentence. "And that's a limerick, not a joke."

Avaric gave him a dubious look. "Don't tell me you actually learnt something, Princey?" Avaric scoffed, laughing obnoxiously at the mere thought.

"Not intentionally," Fiyero quickly said in his defence, not wanting Avaric to get the wrong idea about him. "It turns out there is a less . . ." he trailed off to pick the right word, "interesting version about a man with a bucket."

"Sounds dull," Avaric agreed, "unless the bucket had a hole in it."

Fiyero grinned, temporarily amused by Avaric's insinuation. It took him less than a minute to come up with the rest of the limerick, the rhyme easy enough to figure out on his own.

"Okay, now I'm bored again," Fiyero said with an aggrieved sigh once he was done snickering. He blew a puff of air up towards his forehead, floating his foppish golden brown fringe out his face. This garnered his attention for all of two seconds until he turned his eyes expectantly on Avaric.

"You're always bored," Avaric retorted drolly, sitting up slightly. "When I signed up for this job, I had no idea part of my job description involved entertaining 'his majesty'." Avaric waved his right hand around in a gesture that would normally accompany a flourished bow, but no other part of him moved from his languid position.

"Why don't you just throw another party?" Avaric suggested, as though it should have been completely obvious to Fiyero. "That usually holds your attention for a certain span of time."

Fiyero sighed. "I'm between schools right now," he told his friend with a tone of regret. He glanced almost longingly out the main window where there was an entrancing view of the Great Kells. If he allowed himself to think on it, he could almost imagine he could see the great spires of Kaimo Ko from here. "It's no fun when there's no one to corrupt – my last school is fully corrupted and my next is yet to be decided."

Avaric grinned sitting up fully so he could get a good look at his princely companion. "What'd you do to get kicked out this time?"

Fiyero couldn't help but share Avaric's smile. He wondered how he had kept the story from his friend for so long and was now eager to share. "I organized a little friendly competition between some of the female students," he answered vaguely, stretching out casually as he spoke. "Things turned ugly when one of the girls potioned her boyfriend in order to make herself available."

"I'm guessing she wasn't the worst of them?" Avaric questioned rhetorically, dark eyes flashing with mischief.

Fiyero nodded. "Just the worst the headmaster knew of," he laughed. "Round one was 'Ozland Bingo' and so I kindly volunteered myself as the only student from the West."

"There was a Quadling boy at your school?" Avaric asked, surprised that the xenophobic elites would let such riffraff into their school. It was one thing to let a Winkie prince mingle with the best central Oz had to offer (and this, Avaric knew, was largely only possible because fair skinned, Ozma descended Fiyero didn't look particularly Vinkan) but to let some savage Quadling boy near their precious sons and daughters was another thing entirely.

Fiyero brushed off Avaric's astonishment, ignoring what it meant for the time being. "No," he said simply, letting a lecherous grin pull at his lips. "Not a Quadling _boy_."

Avaric gaped, laughter flowing from him as Fiyero's words sunk in. "God I would have paid to see that," he awed.

"Many did," Fiyero replied.

"See, that's what we need to do," Avaric exclaimed eagerly. "You sit here complaining about being bored when all we need is a little competition to spice things up."

"Yeah, exactly!" Fiyero agreed, Avaric's enthusiasm contagious. He sat straight up in his seat for the first time since he'd begun this . . . quest for something 'rousing. "We just need to . . ." he trailed off bewilderedly. "What is it we need to do?"

Avaric rolled his eyes. "It's like you don't even hear yourself when you speak," he muttered.

Fiyero frowned, taking a moment to refresh himself on the conversation. "You want us to pay to see a Quadling girl make out with thirty-seven college girls?" he asked, raising an eyebrow at his friend. While that sort of thing never got old, the memory was still a little too fresh to need a repeat performance. "I don't know about you, Tenmeadows, but Fiyero Tiggular does not _pay_ to see girls make out with each other.

"At least not in any bankable currency," he added salaciously, nudging Avaric with his foot until the other boy caught his drift. Avaric pretended to look disgusted but he was clearly more jealous than appalled by Fiyero's _quid pro quo_.

"Let me ask you this, Princey," Avaric began dramatically, stepping out of the couch to give his speech a little more panache. "Can you name anything more interesting than watching pretty girls clawing at each other to get a slice of Vinkus beef cake?"

He waved his hand towards the prince in a gesture reminiscent of an auctioneer selling livestock and laughed when Fiyero looked disgusted by the term 'Vinkus beef cake'. "Better yet," he said with an evil grin, continuing after a dramatic pause had sufficiently set the atmosphere for his plan, "respectable girls. Future ladies of the court and baronesses instead of your regular college crowd. Perhaps a Governess even."

Fiyero narrowed his eyes in contemplation. "I see some merits in this," he said dispassionately. He scratched his jaw thoughtfully, noting that he was in good need of a shave. "Continue."

Avaric rolled his eyes once again. "What more is there to say?" he asked, wishing Fiyero could be a little less slow. "We throw a party – invite only – for the finer folks of Oz in order for you to acquire a fiancé." Fiyero blanched and Avaric kindly added, "not for real."

"So we'll have a _fake_ fiancé finding formal for the finer folks of Oz?" he questioned, considering the prospect aloud.

"Yes, but with less 'f's," Avaric grimaced.

"You know that's exactly what my father said about my report card," the Prince joked. Both knew well enough that the incentive that enticed headmasters to accept Fiyero into their schools despite his track record had the added bonus of buffering his course grades.

Fiyero rubbed his hands together in anticipation. "I'm already un-bored just thinking about it," he grinned. "This is exact-tastically the thing we need to really stir things up."

"There's the Fiyero I know," Avaric commented, presumably referring to the bright spark of mischief that had returned to Fiyero's grey-blue eyes. "Using words that don't exist. For a moment I thought I had lost you to the realms of dusty tomes and arithmetic tables."

"We've got to do it Saturday," Fiyero continued, only acknowledging Avaric's 'wit' with a brief glare. "Who knows where I could be on Monday. If _the King_ gets mad enough I could be off in the Badlands for all of two weeks."

"Four days doesn't give us much time to prepare," Avaric complained, "but I suppose you've organized a party in less. Just bear in mind that these society types like to prepare themselves well in advance. They might even have something else planned for Saturday."

"You think they're going to turn down an invitation from _the_ Crown Prince Fiyero Illiiré Tiggular of the Arjikis people, first and only son of Marillot Oward Tiggular, King of the Vinkus?" Fiyero asked pompously, announcing his full name, title and credentials. "The only person in all of Oz that outranks me is the Wizard himself, and everyone knows I throw a better party."

"That you do," Avaric conceded, "and I suppose the allure of marriage will have them flocking despite your bad manners. As much as I hate to say so, you're basically Oz's most eligible bachelor right now.

"I think I know a guy who can get the invitations out in less than two hours," Avaric continued, mentally going through his address book.

"See this is why I hired you," Fiyero grinned. "You always have a guy."

Avaric gave him a painful look. "Yeah, but my guy is useless unless you can deliver the finer details, Fiyero," Avaric intoned almost gravely.

"No worries," Fiyero assured him, waving off his friend's concerns. "I've already worked it out. We'll host it at the Embassy in Upper Munch . . ." He trailed off as Avaric began to look almost disgusted at the thought. "It's Upper Munch so it won't be _too_ bad."

Avaric's expression was little changed by this assurance. "Tetotalering little midgets," he muttered with all the superiority and disdain handed down by his central-Oz upbringing.

"It's not like we've got much choice in the matter," Fiyero protested, rolling his eyes at his friend's blatant prejudice. "If we hold it too close to the city it'll look suspicious. The Munchkin's will be so pleased to be noticed that they won't think to question any of it.

"Or report it to my father," Fiyero added meaningfully, driving home the importance of holding the shindig outside of Gillikin. If the King got word of it before the event he'd surely put an end to their fun, what with Fiyero being sort of grounded and still in plenty of trouble over his latest expulsion.

"I suppose," Avaric shrugged, "but you know this means you'll have to send an invite to Governor Frexspar the Godly," he said with a derisively lilt and a lip curl of disgust.

Fiyero grimaced. "You mean I have to invite some tiny Munchkin girl?" Fiyero complained. "At least she'll be so small I can overlook her."

"Please," Avaric said with a shake of his head, "the Thropp's have about as much Munchkin in them as I do. There are family lines in Gillikin with more Munchkin blood than his Eminence.

"I hear he has two rather unfortunate daughters," he continued, lowering his voice as though imparting a secret even though they were the only two within hearing range. "The younger is a cripple, and the older is said to be hideously disfigured. If you're lucky he'll keep them at home. If you're less lucky, he'll send the cripple."

"She hasn't got a hump, has she?" Fiyero asked, a shudder running through him. For some reason, humps seemed to creep him out.

"I don't know the details," Avaric shrugged. "Never really cared to ask."

"Ok, so other than the Thropp freaks –" Avaric grimaced at Fiyero's constant need to alliterate and his particular fondness for irregular rhymes and alliterations "– who else should be on the guest list?" Fiyero asked, deferring to Avaric who was a more wise of who was who in Oz society.

"Hmmm," Avaric mused thoughtfully. "Well you should definitely send one to Lord Chuffrey's house," he began.

"I thought he was a bachelor," Fiyero replied.

"I know," Avaric grinned, "but he had a fling with one of his maids and it will embarrass him to no end if you invite the little bastard.

"Sir Rosterdam of Thorndon's daughter might be an idea," he continued. "She's a bit below what we're looking for, but you can guarantee she'll make a scene. You'll need to send invites to the Wizard's court advisors, the Captain of the guard, and the Bishop. The titleholders of Gillikin need to be sent invites, although there are a few I'd like you to snub for my own puerile enjoyment.

"And you can't forget the Vinkus nobility. Miss Sarima will obviously be top of your guest list," he added jokingly.

Fiyero snorted derisively and Avaric just laughed loudly.

"Let's see . . . you'll have to send invites to all the major land owners, especially those around tiny tot country," Avaric continued, ignoring the warning look Fiyero sent his way. "You can ignore the bankers, but I'd invite a few major merchants because they might bring you something nice in a show of appreciation."

"Perhaps some of the wine growing families?" Fiyero suggested hopefully. "I know they don't really meet the description for this event, but they're awfully gracious and send the best thank you gifts."

"One," Avaric conceded, "so pick your poison wisely."

"So that would be . . ." Fiyero began, doing a complicated mental calculation of his guest list. He was ridiculously good at this given that most people assumed he couldn't add past his fingers. "About eighty guests, but I'll call it one hundred to give us a little leeway. Actually, call it one-twenty and we'll invite some of the old boys."

"I'll let my guy know," Avaric nodded. He did a quick check of himself in a large hanging mirror before striding purposefully towards the door. "You good to sort out the remaining details by yourself, Princey?" he asked, turning back briefly to confirm.

"Aye, Avaric," the prince nodded, annoying Avaric once again with his alliterations.

"Well then," Avaric grinned, "I guess we can consider this little shindig of yours officially on."

"Team Fiyeric does it again," Fiyero cheered, grinning with excitement. Avaric scowled and Fiyero sheepishly promised to think of a better name while his friend was gone. In the meantime he had menus to plan, bands to hire, and all sorts of intricate details to determine.

And suddenly Prince Fiyero Illiiré Tiggular wasn't quite so bored.

~ to be continued ~

Next chapter: Fiyero throws a party. A Fake Fiance Finding party.

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A/N: Hope you liked the first chapter. I should note that while my Fiyero is Tim Campbell, in line with the book I've imagined Fiyero for this fic as having more of a Middle Eastern look (I think I've mentioned before that I think of book Vinkans as being sort of Iranian/Persian)


	2. Boy Meets Girl

**If the Shoe Fits**

Disclaimer: I do not own Wicked.

Thank you everyone for the enthusiastic reception of the first chapter. Hopefully this does not disappoint.

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Summary: Fiyero's found the girl of his dreams, only he has nothing to go by but a first name and her ungainly choice of footwear. She's beautiful and impassioned and just being around her makes him feel like he's finally awake. Only she's not quite all she appears to be. Fiyeraba. AU.

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If the Shoe Fits - Boy Meets Girl

"I must say, Prince Tiggelaar," some girl tittered in his ear, giggling drunkenly, "you throw a wonderful *hic* party."

"I do, don't I?" Fiyero agreed immodestly. He didn't need drunken girls complimenting him to know it was a fact; Fiyero was well aware of his finer traits, and party planning was certainly one of them.

He spun the girl around the dance floor, being careful not to move too quickly for fear that it might make her nauseous and ruin the outfit he'd spent so long crafting. His Munchkin-blue frock coat perfectly complimented his eyes, and the gold brocade waistcoat brought out the golden hue of his skin tone. His cream breaches and white shirt were a perfect compliment to these, and his polished leather boots a fine finishing touch.

He waved as he spotted Avaric across the room, surrounded by a large crowd of women. Avaric had taken it upon himself to organize his dance card for the evening, and the young women – apparently all _incredibly_ cultured and well-bred ladies – were doing anything short of sexual favours just to get on the list. Avaric gave him a nod towards his next dance partner and Fiyero grimaced in reply.

He bid adieu to his current dance partner, giving her a quick bow before making his way across the dance floor towards a slightly plump Vinkan girl. This would be a dance of obligation rather than pleasure, although admittedly there were worse people he could be dancing with at the moment.

_'Speaking of which . . .'_ he thought painfully to himself as a short redheaded girl cut into his path. "Oh look, we found each other," she said boisterously, her curly red hair staying frighteningly still as she bounced in the balls of her feet.

Fiyero covered his pained expression, plastering a fake smile filled with all kinds of appeasements. "I guess we did," he agreed charmingly, running a hand through his sandy hair. "And here I was, not even aware I was looking for anyone."

"Shall we take our dance, Master Tiggular?" she tittered, batting her lashes in a disconcerting manner.

"I'm not sure I'm free to dance, Miss Rosterdam," he replied, faking distress

"Of course you are," she replied. "I already booked you.

"And please," she added, leaning closer to him than was proper, "call me ShenShen."

Fiyero grimaced before awkwardly settling his features into something more neutral. "Are you sure, Miss ShenShen?" he asked her politely. "Avaric didn't sa-"

"Not with Tenmeadows," she muttered derisively, cutting him off before he could say more. "I've booked you myself. No point going through some interloper, no?"

Fiyero looked somewhat amused and wondered if she even knew what the word 'interloper' meant. "I'm sorry, Miss ShenShen," he said, feigning sympathy, "but it wouldn't be fair on the other girls for me to dance with you right now. This dance has already been promised."

"Pssh," ShenShen answered in response. "She's not here, so why wait? _I'm_ here, and I –"

"Excuse me," a voice cut in politely, and Fiyero turned gratefully to face the Vinkan blonde. "I believe this is my dance," she told them both.

"Really?" ShenShen asked. "Says who?"

"Only Master Tenmeadows," the blonde replied, keeping surprising cool given the circumstances. "I was led to believe he had complete authority over Prince Fiyero's dance card this evening."

Fiyero silently thanked the Unnamed God (not that he subscribed to the Unionist drivel) for her good breeding. Had she been as "well-bred" as Miss Rosterdam (and the Gillikinese had the pomposity to call _them_ uncouth), he might have had a catfight on his hands. Instead the blonde just glared icy daggers at the redhead.

"It's a pleasure to see you again, Miss Sarima," he greeted enthusiastically, hoping to break the tension with forced graciousness.

Sarima barely glanced in his direction, sending him a shy smile before glaring dangerously at Miss ShenShen. "I don't mean to be rude," she said in a _painfully_ polite manner, "but I must insist on taking this dance."

"Must you?" ShenShen asked blandly. "The dance is already half over. You might as well allow _Fiyero_ and I to continue our talk. You're clearly not wanted here, Miss –"

"Sarima," the blonde said, "_Marquise_ Sarima Polat," she added, throwing in her father's title for good measure. "Fiyero and _I_ go _way_ back. We used to play together on the grasslands."

"Oh so you're a **Winkie**," ShenShen deduced, obviously unimpressed by whatever Winkie rank Sarima choose to imbue herself with. She paid no heed to the fact that the term 'Winkie' insulted Fiyero as much as (if not more than) it insulted Sarima.

"Yes," Sarima replied tightly, not the slightest ashamed of her nationality. Better a Winkie than some self-important Gillikinese witch. "By your looks, I'd assume Munchkin?"

ShenShen flushed a brilliant red and stewed with anger. "I am sixth generation Gillikin," she replied equally tight.

"Once a Munchkin always a Munchkin," Sarima shrugged indifferently in a breezy tone. Avaric had been most correct about impure Gillikin lines. Despite her insistence, ShenShen couldn't be more than an eighth Gillikinese at best.

"Ladies, please," Fiyero attempted soothingly. "No need to fight over me. I'm sure we can –"

"You take that back you uncivilized Winkie savage!" ShenShen cried, shoving Sarima roughly into Fiyero's side.

"Not in your life, you inbred little midget!" Sarima retorted, pushing back and as a result pushing Fiyero into a passing waiter carrying a tray of drinks.

The drinks spilled onto Fiyero's jacket before clattering to the floor. "Your highness, I'm so sorry," the young waiter, a dark-haired Munchkin boy who was rather tall for a Munchkinlander, apologised profusely.

"It's fine," Fiyero assured him, brushing off his jacket. It certainly wasn't the waiter's fault that he'd gotten caught in the crossfire. "It's not like it'll stain," he added, glad that the waiter hadn't been carrying anything more dangerous than champagne.

"No," the boy agreed, "Would like me to get you something?" he asked hospitably, his eyes falling on the trying scene beside him.

"Yes," Fiyero answered. "Something strong and scotch like."

"I'll make it a triple," the waiter nodded before heading to fetch Fiyero's drink.

"You heathen bitch!" ShenShen cried, tossing hors d'oeuvres at her foe.

"Unionist hypocrite!" Sarima screamed back, tossing a small bowl of top quality caviar at the mostly Munchkin girl.

"Knuckle dragging scum!"

"Circus attraction!"

"Pagan idolatrist!"

"Redneck-racist!"

"Ladies!" Fiyero tried again, stepping between them at the worst possible moment. ShenShen had raised a glass of red wine from a nearby table while Sarima had gotten her hands on a chocolate dessert, and both were currently being tossed in his direction.

Time seemed to slow and life carried on in slow motion for Fiyero as he let out a pained "noooooooo". The dessert hit the side of his face, jarring his head to the right before dripping down his neck and down the collar of his shirt. The wine was splashed straight into his golden waistcoat, before dropping to the ground with a poignant shatter.

"Oh my!" they cried in unison as they realized their mistake. Time sped to full speed and they simultaneous reached to his clothing, unbuttoning his waistcoat and attacking his shirt. "Let me help you with that."

He wondered later if maybe all the women in the room had some sort of radar attuned to undressing princes. His quiet protests were accompanied by a whole room of women suddenly turning their eyes towards him, the look in their eyes animalistic.

Fiyero took a frantic gulp, his eyes widened with fear. They moved forwards in a single movement, arms reaching towards him and lipstick stained mouths salivating with lust. He looked around desperately for his best friend, but it was hard to see anything past the hordes of women suddenly coming upon him.

It was pure luck that saved him, well luck and the Munchkin waiter from earlier. He returned with Fiyero's drink and seeing him in such a pickle, dragged him free before the women could get their claws into him. He was safe for but a moment, but definitely not out the woods.

"Run," the Munchkin boy instructed as the women turned all at once, the hunger still present in their eyes. "Run," he commanded.

Fiyero did not need to be told thrice. He dashed quickly out of the room, ducking through hallways and into empty rooms until he was quite certain of his safety. It wasn't until he had barricaded himself in a disused library that he finally felt safe enough to breathe, and only because he considered it the last place anyone would look for him. With a loud of sigh of relief, he let himself drop surely to the ground in near exhaustion.

"Excuse me," a reprimanding voice called across the room, "do you mind breathing more quietly? I'm trying to read."

Fiyero looked up with a start, thinking for a second that his hiding place had been given away until he began to digest her words. He stood cautiously, making his way towards the dark figure huddled in an armchair with a large, dusty book in her lap.

"Have you been here all night?" he asked, deducing that she hadn't been privy to the scene in the ballroom that got him there.

She 'tsked' impatiently and he could almost _hear_ her eyes rolling. "Of course," she replied, not bothering to look up from the book resting in her lap. "I much prefer this sort of company to that found in the ballroom," she told him and waved a vague gesture towards the books that lined the room's four walls.

Fiyero nodded despite his lack of agreement. He had always been very proud of his social life and rarely deemed a book to be more interesting than people, although at the moment he'd rather be anywhere but the ballroom so he could at least sympathise to a small degree.

He moved around the room, trying to find an angle that would give him a better view of her. All he seemed to make out of her was gently curling, ink black hair that provided an impenetrable curtain around her face. Her hands were covered in a pair of lace gloves and she was swathed top to bottom in a dark violet fabric almost as dark as her hair.

"Do you read a lot?" he asked, trying to make conversation to hide his snooping.

She responded with a low aggravated growl before suddenly snapping her book shut with a loud 'thump'. She looked up suddenly, her hair flying back over her shoulders and Fiyero was suddenly struck dumb.

He gasped.

~ to be continued ~

Next chapter: Meet the girl of Fiyero's dreams.

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Notes:

_Marquise_: according to Wikipedia Marquise (or rather Marquess) is a peerage rank right between a duke and an earl. From what I can tell, this gives Sarima the same rank as Avaric (Avaric being the future Marg(e)ave).


	3. Over Too Fast

**If the Shoe Fits**

Disclaimer: I do not own Wicked.

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Summary: Fiyero's found the girl of his dreams, only he has nothing to go by but a first name and her ungainly choice of footwear. She's beautiful and impassioned and just being around her makes him feel like he's finally awake. Only she's not quite all she appears to be. Fiyeraba. AU.

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If the Shoe Fits - Over Too Fast

Her eyes narrowed as he gaped, two of the most beautifully rich chocolate brown pools he'd ever seen glaring with vehemence. "Stop staring," she demanded as her beautiful features contorted into anger.

"I'm sorry," Fiyero apologized quickly, his tongue feeling heavy in his mouth. "I didn't mean to, you're just . . ." He breathed deeply, his eyes glazed with adoration. "You're just so beautiful." The words seemed completely inadequate, not even close to describing the stunning creature seated before him. He doubted that even the greatest poets could find the words to describe her beauty and yet such words must have existed. He couldn't believe that anyone could be so beautiful and yet here she was.

She flushed adorably under his praise, her pale cheeks almost matching her red stained mouth. Her eyes fell self-consciously down to her lap and she gathered her dark violet gown around her as though it were a shield. "Thank you," she muttered quietly.

Fiyero shook his head. "You act like nobody has ever told you so before now," he noted, "which can't be true because, well, just look at you. Your eyes . . . your hair . . . your lips . . .

"You're perfection," he finished dramatically.

"Please don't," she told him quickly, lifting a hand to stop him. "It makes me uncomfortable. If you insist on being here either be silent and let me finish my book, or talk about something else. Just stop making such a fool of yourself."

"My apologies," he answered gallantly, bowing at the waist. "I didn't mean to offend."

She glanced up, her eyes stern once again. "I suppose you didn't," she said with an ambiguous shrug. "Oz, you're a mess," she swore as she saw him properly for the first time. "You look like you tried to dress in a food fight."

Fiyero chuckled, glancing down to survey the damage for himself. He cut himself off with an almost sob as he realized how bad it was. There were tears in the fabric of his blazer, and his waistcoat and shirt were badly stained with wine. He was looking messy and out of place in the fine setting, particularly now that he shared it with such a finely dressed young woman.

"Let me help," she said, seeming to take sympathy on him once she saw how distraught he looked. Then again, this didn't stop her from rolling her eyes as she moved towards a small cabinet stocked with the essentials – gin, vermouth, vodka, and club soda. She went through the bottles until she found what she was looking for, moistened a cloth and then gestured for him to approach. "I can't do anything about your jacket, but this should fix the waistcoat," she explained as she held the cloth towards him. Fiyero gave the cloth a blank look, not really understanding what she intended him to do with it. She gave a frustrated sigh and then discarded her gloves as she was forced to come closer and administer the home remedy herself.

"There," she said, once she was successfully able to dab most of the stain out of his waistcoat. "Almost good as new."

Fiyero grinned. "My hero," he told her smoothly. "What shall I ever do to repay you, Miss?"

"El –" she began, but cut herself off. "Ella."

"Miss Ella," Fiyero repeated and brought one of her pale hands to his lips. "Forgive me for not introducing myself sooner. I am Prince Fiyero Tiggular."

She gave him a superior smile, raising an eyebrow haughtily. "I know who you are."

Fiyero started a little as her response caught him off guard. "I just thought – "

"That the reason I wasn't swooning was because I didn't know any better?" she finished for him. "My roommate took great pains to inform me of your reputation. _Everyone_ knows about the '_scandalacious_ Winkie Prince', although not all by choice."

Fiyero grimaced at the title. It was the first time he'd ever felt ashamed of his reputation.

"I'm actually a little disappointed now that I've met you," she mused quietly and examined him openly.

"Not 'scandalacious' enough for you?" he asked in reply, the words coming out more biting than he intended.

She waved off his words. "I've never met anyone but Munchkins and Gillikins," she told. "I thought you'd look different. Everyone always talks about the Vinkus being inhabited by dark-skinned warriors and nomads, but you just look like any Gillikinese nobleman you could see on the streets of Emerald City, although perhaps a little darker, but nothing beyond what fashion would dictate."

Fiyero shrugged nonchalantly, not allowing his surprise or embarrassment to show. "The royal Vinkan lines are intertwined with those of the Ozma," he explained as though it ought to be common knowledge. "Fair skin is a sign of noble blood and good breeding.

"Most of what you hear about the Vinkus in central Oz is inaccurate at best, narrow-minded and unsubstantiated at worse," he added, his expression darkening slightly as he remembered ShenShen Rosterdam's words earlier. "We are as civilized as Gillikin itself, although after tonight's display I'd say that isn't much of a recommendation."

She paled slightly after the explanation, her eyes widening. "Now I think I'm the one to offend you," she said contritely. "I didn't mean anything by it. I just . . . oh," she complained, her features creased into a tight frown, "there's really no good way to put it, is there? I'm sorry. I have tendency just to say what's on my mind without considering others."

He smiled and shook his head. "It's fine," he assured her. "I'm not offended. More . . . surprised," he admitted. "People are usually relieved that I look so much like them, not disappointed.

"You, Miss Ella, are certainly one of a kind," he finished charmingly. She flushed once again, and Fiyero decided that he quite liked the look of her when she was blushing.

"Tell me truth about the Vinkus," she insisted, changing the subject abruptly. She didn't seem to appreciate being complimented so he would have to be more subtle about it in the future. "If you're going to insist on talking to me, then tell me something interesting."

"What would you like to know?" he asked her.

She bit her lip nervously, her eyes roaming his features. "Your diamonds," she said quietly, glancing away. "I'd like to know about your diamonds."

He was stunned by her response. People rarely noticed his tattoos and rarely asked about them when they did. His hands went subconsciously to his hairline, tentatively touching the silver-blue diamonds that lay beneath his fashionably long fringe. They were the reason he kept his hair long – to hide the tribal markings that separated him from the Gillikinese noblemen she had compared him to earlier.

"They're just tribal tattoos," he answered, unwilling to reveal their significance to a stranger. She gave him an incredulous look, uncannily observant and knowing that he was hiding the truth, but she didn't push him for more details. She graciously changed the subject, asking instead about Vinkus religion and whether they were truly the pagan savages that all of Oz believed them to be.

And so he happily regaled her with tales of his homeland for the rest of the evening, feeling slightly less homesick for her company and attention. Her eyes were bright and curious as he explained some of their customs and how they had their own religious idols in Kumbrica and Lurline. It was the first time in a long time that he hadn't simply let himself fit in to the Gillikin customs around him, and he felt happier for the opportunity.

He continued until she hissed suddenly, jumping from the seat she had taken residence in.

"I have to go," she announced, glancing down at her shoes momentarily.

"Okay," Fiyero said, his smile dropping momentarily. "I'll walk you to your cab."

"No," she insisted fiercely. "I mean, there's no need," she backtracked.

"It was a pleasure to meet you, Prince Fiyero," she said, offering her hand. "You have made this evening, dare I say, enjoyable," she said with a wry smile.

"The pleasure is all mine, Miss Ella," he answered charmingly. He paused for a moment, considering his next course of action before pressing on. "May I call on you, Miss Ella?" he asked, unwilling to let this be the end of one of the most magical encounters in his life.

She smiled sadly, shaking her head. "Let's not, Fiyero," she suggested looking more than reluctant to have it end right there. "If it's meant to be, then our paths will cross again," she assured him whimsically.

"And if they don't?" he asked her hopelessly.

"Then I had a wonderful evening," she shrugged. "Perhaps this moment wasn't meant to last."

"Then stay, Ella," he asked her, almost begging as he grasped her hands in his own. They'd been having such a pleasant evening, or at least he'd thought so, and yet she seemed almost desperate to be free from him. He did what he could to prolong their time together. "Don't let it be over so soon."

She shook her head, smiling sadly as she reluctantly pulled her hands from his. "Goodbye, Fiyero," she said simply, leaving no room for protest. She hesitated for a moment, and then – rousing her courage – kissed him chastely on the lips. She sent him one last longing look before sweeping out of the room.

He was still and silent in her wake, slowly coming to his senses. "No," he said aloud as he realized what was happening – that he had just let the most beautiful girl he'd ever seen walk out of his life. He made to chase after her, but it was already too late.

By the time he made it outside, there was nothing left of her but a single glass slipper and the lingering scent of poppies.

* * *

Elphaba woke Sunday morning with a terrible migraine and her stomach rolling around like it was caught in a tempest. She tried to bury herself under the covers as her roommate sang loudly about how glorious the morning was and then gossiped non-stop for an hour in a high pitched tone that aggravated Elphaba even when she didn't have a magic hangover.

But eventually Galinda (Upland of the Upper Uplands) got sick of passive-aggressively punishing her roommate for going to a party that she herself hadn't been invited to and went to assert herself more actively. It simply wasn't fair that her strange green roommate got to go to a party attended by _the_ Prince Fiyero Tiggular when the likes of herself, a known beauty, had been unceremoniously snubbed.

The Uplands, for all the show that Galinda put on, did not share the Prince's social circle. They had made their name in the most seedy and undignified way – by dealing in money and futures and buying whatever recognition they could get. No matter how much money her parents acquired, even Galinda Upland couldn't buy her way onto Prince Fiyero's guest list.

Galinda dragged back the covers, unconcerned by the groan it produced in her roommate. "I see you're still green," she said with a sneer, eyeing her roommate with a measured glare.

"Still _blonde_ I see," Elphaba sneered back as though it were a worser sin.

Galinda glared. "I'll have you know that this colour is completely natural," she said ignoring the way her roommate scoffed. A roommate she unfortunately shared a bathroom with and who therefore knew where she hid her Ozian gold colouring for touch-ups.

"I don't know why you would _choose_ to be green," Galinda continued before her roommate pointed it out. "You said the spell would become permanent."

Elphaba groaned, her roommate making it annoyingly clear that she wasn't going to be allowed to just sleep through the rest of the day. "Yes, it does if I wear the shoes for more than four hours.

"As do the shoes themselves," she pointed out meaningfully. "Imagine it, Miss Galinda," she said with a dramatic sigh, couching it in something that the pretty bauble would understand. "Having to wear the same pair of shoes for the rest of your life."

Galinda gasped at the horror.

"It was nice for the night," Elphaba continued, a small but genuine smile pulling on her lips, "but why would I want to spend the rest of my life like that?"

"No. Of course _you_ wouldn't," Galinda said dully, remembering the tall, beautiful burnet that had stood in her roommate's place last night. Who in their right mind would want to be all statuesque and prettified when they could be odd and green?

Elphaba shook her head. She didn't expect Galinda Upland of all people to understand.

Playing at being Ella was fun for the night, but it wasn't real. No matter how terrible it might seem, she'd much rather be herself and be green than pretend to be something she wasn't.

~ to be continued ~

Next chapter: Fiyero and Avaric make plans.

* * *

Notes:


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